Yamazaki stood up, wincing at the pain in his back, and stumbled toward the green-painted metal box Skinner was pointing at.

“Gone off fucking that no-ass greaseball boyfriend of hers again. Useless, Scooter…”

He stood on Skinner’s roof, pantlegs flapping in a breeze that gave no hint of last night’s storm, looking out at the city washed in a strange iron light, shreds of his dream still circling dimly… Shapely had spoken to him, his voice the voice of the young Elvis Presley. He said that he had forgiven his killers.

Yamazaki stared at Transamerica’s upright thorn, bandaged with the brace they’d applied after the Little Grande, half-hearing the dreamed voice. They just didn’t know any better, Scooter.

Skinner cursing, below, as he sponged himself with water Yamazaki had warmed on the Coleman stove.

Yamazaki thought of his thesis advisor in Osaka.

“I don’t care” Yamasaki said, in English, San Francisco his witness.

The whole city was a Thomasson. Perhaps America itself was a Thomasson.

How could they understand this in Osaka, in Tokyo?

“Yo! On the roof!” someone called.

Yamazaki turned, saw a thin black man atop the tangle of girders that braced the upper end of Skinner’s lift. He wore a thick tweed overcoat and a crocheted cap.

“You okay up there? How ’bout Skinner?”

Yamazaki hesitated, remembering Loveless. If Skinner or the girl had enemies, how could he recognize them?

“Name’s Fontaine” the man said. “Chevette called me, told me to get over here and see if Skinner got through the blow all right. I take care of the wiring tip here, make sure his lift’s running and all.”

“He’s bathing now” Yamazaki said. “In the storm, he became… confused. He doesn’t seem to remember.”

“Have some power for you in about another half an hour” the man said. “Wish I could say the same for over my end. Lost four transformers. Got us five dead bodies, twenty injured that I know of. Skinner got coffee on?”

“Yes” Yamazaki said.

“Do with a cup about now.”

“Yes, please” Yamazaki said, and bowed. The black man smiled. Yamazaki scrambled down through the hatch. “Skinner-san! A man named Fontaine, he is your friend?”

Skinner was struggling into yellowed thermal underwear. “Useless bastard. Still don’t have any power…”

Yamazaki unlatched the hatch in the floor and hauled it open. Fontaine eventually appeared at the bottom of the ladder, a battered canvas tool-bag in either hand. Putting one down and slinging the other over his shoulder, he began to climb.

Yamazaki poured the remaining coffee into the cleanest cup.

“Fuel-cell’s buggered” Skinner said, as Fontaine pushed his bag ahead of him, through the opening. Skinner was layered now in at least three threadbare flannel shirts, their tails pushed unevenly into the waistband of an ancient pair of woolen Army trousers.

“We’re working on it, boss” Fontaine said, standing up and smoothing his overcoat. “Had us a big old storm here.”

“What Scooter says” Skinner said.

“Well, he’s not shittin’ you, Skinner. Thanks.” Fontaine accepted the steaming cup of black coffee and blew on it. He looked at Yamazaki. “Chevette said she might not get back here for a while. Know anything about that?”

Yamazaki looked at Skinner.

“Useless” Skinner said. “Gone off with that shithead again.”

“Didn’t say anything about that” Fontaine said. “Didn’t say much at all. But if she’s not going to be around, you’re going to need somebody take care of things for you.”

“Take care of myself” Skinner said.

“I know that, boss” Fontaine assured, “but we got a couple of fried servos in your lift down there. Take a few days get that going for you, the kind of backlog we’re looking at. Need you somebody go up and down the rungs. Bring you food and all.”

“Scooter can do it” Skinner said.

Yamazaki blinked.

“That right?” Fontaine raised his eyebrows at Yamazaki. “You stay up here and take care of Mr. Skinner?”

Yamazaki thought of his borrowed flat in the tall Victorian house, its black marble bathroom larger than his bachelor apartment in Osaka. He looked from Fontaine to Skinner, then back. “I would be honored, to stay with Skinner-san, if he wishes.”

“Do what you like” Skinner said, and began laboriously stripping the sheets from his mattress.

“Chevette told me you might be up here” Fontaine said. “Some kind of university guy…” He put his cup down on the table, bent to swing his tool-bag up beside it. “Said maybe you people worried about uninvited guests.” He undid the bag’s two buckles and opened it. Tools gleamed there, rolls of insulated wire. He took out something wrapped in an oily rag, looked to see that Skinner wasn’t observing him, and tucked the thing behind the glass jars on the shelf above the table.

“We can pretty much make sure nobody you don’t know will get up here for the next couple days” he said to Yamazaki, lowering his voice. “But that’s a.38 Special, six rounds of hollow-point. You use it, do me a big favor and toss it off the side, okay? It’s of, uh” Fontaine grinned, “dubious provenance.”

Yamazaki thought of Loveless. Swallowed. “You gonna be okay up here?” Fontaine asked. “Yes” Yamazaki said, “yes, thank you.”

It was ten-thirty before they finally had to hit the street, and then only because Laurie, who Chevette knew from that first day she’d ever come in here, said that the manager, Benny Singh, was going to be showing up and they couldn’t stay in there anymore, particularly not with her friend asleep like that, like he was passed out or something. Chevette said she understood, and thanked her.

“You see Sammy Sal” Laurie said, “you say hi for me.”

Chevette nodded, sad, and started shaking the guy’s shoulder. He grunted and tried to brush her hand away. “Wake up. We gotta go.”

She couldn’t believe she’d told him all that stuff, but she’d just had to tell somebody or she’d go crazy. Not that telling it had made it make any more sense than it did before, and with this Rydell’s side of it added on, it sort of made even less. The news that somebody had gone and murdered the asshole just didn’t seem real, but if it was, she supposed, she was in deeper shit than ever.

“Wake up!”

“Jesus…” He sat up, knuckling his eyes.

“We gotta go. Manager’ll be in soon. My friend let you sleep a while.”

“Go where?”

Chevette had been thinking about that. “Cole, over by the Panhandle, there’s places rent rooms by the hour.”

“Hotels?”

“Not exactly” she said. “For people just need the bed for a little while.”

He dug behind the couch for his jacket. “Look at that” he said, sticking his fingers into the rip in the shoulder. “Brand new last night.”

Neighborhoods that mainly operated at night had a way of looking a lot worse in the morning. Even the beggars looked worse off this time of day, like that guy there with those sores, the one trying to sell half a can of spaghetti sauce. She stepped around him. Another block or two and they’d start to hit the early crowd of day-trippers headed for Skywalker Park; more cover in the crowd but more cops, too. She tried to remember if Skywalker’s rentacops were IntenSecure, that company Rydell talked about.

She wondered if Fontaine had gone to Skinner’s like he’d said he would. She hadn’t wanted to say too much over the phone, so at first she’d just said she was going away for a while, and would Fontaine go over and see how Skinner was doing, and maybe this Japanese student guy who’d been hanging around lately. But Fontaine could tell she sounded worried, so he’d sort of pushed her about it, and she’d told him she was worried about Skinner, how maybe there were some people gonna go up there and hassle him.